Becky still didn’t know the truth—that Sutton was dead, that Emma was now here in Tucson with the Mercers. But it was a relief to know that Becky was safe. Emma liked imagining different versions of a new life for her mother: She pictured Becky strong and healthy, putting weight back on her skeletal frame so the severe, haunted look vanished from her face. She pictured her painting houses in bright colors, or selling fruit from a roadside stand, or learning to guide a skiff down the river from some patient, kind mentor. More than anything, she wanted to believe Becky could change. She wanted to believe they all could, if they wanted to.

Her eyes moved back to her own reflection as she raised the lip gloss to her mouth. But what she saw in the mirror made her drop the tube in shock, and it clattered into the sink, forgotten. For less than a heartbeat, she saw her there, a shimmer, a flicker. Sutton.

Her twin stood right next to her. She wore the same pink hoodie and terry-cloth shorts she’d died in, her hair in long loose waves around her shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror. The ghost of a smile played around her lips . . . and then she was gone.

“Sutton?” Emma whirled around to look behind her. But even as she turned, she knew she wouldn’t see anyone there. She turned back to the mirror, to her own high cheekbones, her own turned-up nose. The line between Emma and Sutton had been so blurred for so long. Where did her twin’s life end and hers begin?

My sister would have the rest of her life to figure out who she was. But I had a feeling I would always be a part of her—that somehow, we’d changed each other.

A light knock sounded. “Come in,” Emma called softly. Laurel opened the door. She fixed a stare on Emma for a long moment.

“What’s up?” Emma asked.

Laurel shook her head. “It’s still just spooky. Sorry. I know you’re probably tired of hearing that. It’s like you’re Sutton, but . . . not.” She came and stood next to Emma, running a brush through her honey-blonde hair.

“No, you’re right. It’s spooky to me, too,” Emma said, staring into the mirror again. She was wearing her vintage 1970s Tootsie Pop T-shirt and a DIY denim skirt she’d made from an old pair of jeans. She’d braided her hair loosely back and trimmed her own bangs—they’d been in her eyes since she came to Tucson. “This stuff doesn’t even feel like me anymore. But Sutton’s clothes don’t feel like me, either.”

Laurel pinned her hair up in a sloppy bun. “Well, that just means we have to have an identity-crisis shopping trip soon. Maybe this week we’ll hit La Encantada.”